A House, A Home, A Resting Place
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: "The night when I kissed you, I left a poem in your mouth."- Andrea Gibson:: Twenty birthday drabbles and oneshots for Paula:: 10. DudleyPiers
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Everything in this collection is for the beautiful, talented, amazing Paula. I love you, wifey. Always. Happy birthday, my love.**

Breathe in your hate, my love. You know you are so beautiful when hellfire and wrath war with the tender twinkle in your blue eyes.

Don't be quiet. Don't be timid. Oh, I know you, Albus, more than you know.

You are so beautiful when you're hating, when you let your mask of peace and tranquility shatter at your feet.

Give in to the monster, my love. Justify it howeve you'd like with your reasons upon reasons. As long as you let the beast within twist you into knots until you are something you can no longer recognize in the mirror.

Let the darkness take you over, dear Albus. I know you want to every time I mention your sister and how they've left her broken. I know you want to let all those demons win, want to give in.

Let them win, my love. For my soul is damned, and damnation would be so lonely without you.


	2. Chapter 2

_Justin,_

_You're gone. Of course, you already know that. I mean, you're the one on the run, right? But I just need to put that down, like maybe it will make the word seem more true._

_Of course, your empty bed is enough proof that you're gone. I curled up in your sheets, hoping that they might still smell like you. They don't. Just detergent, which is okay, but it's not you._

_It's like they've wiped away every trace of you from the castle. It wasn't enough to drive you into hiding. They had to get rid of my last tie to you._

_I miss you. I wish I could send this, but I don't know where you are. The post is probably being watched, anyway._

_So you won't see this. You won't know that I'm thinking of you every day and that it hurts that you aren't here._

_Wherever you are, I hope you're happy. I hope you're safe. Mostly, though, I hope you'll come back to me._

_Love (yes, I said love, you git),_

_Ernie_

* * *

Justin swears sofly as he realizes he's down to his last scrap of parchment. Of course, he hadn't thought it'd be that important when he and the Creevey brothers had set off after the Ministry had fallen. In hindsight, he should've known he'd want to write to Ernie. Now, his bag is too filled with notes to hold much else.

He stirs the coals carefully, leaning closer to the dying fire for the last traces of light that it provides, and he writes.

_Dear Ernie,_

_You probably think I'm an idiot. What a sap, right? A war is waging, and I'm writing bloody love letters to you._

_I guess it really is silly isn't it? But it's the only thing that makes it easier. If I write to you, I remember you. If I remember you, you're real. If you're real, I have someone to come home to._

_Maybe I'll even have the courage to let you read them one day. Maybe. I'm no Gryffindor, though._

_I hope you're safe. I would say I hope you're staying out of trouble, but I know the Death Eaters are at Hogwarts, so I hope you're giving them hell. Just don't die, okay? I like the thought of having someone to come back to when this is over._

_I love you._

_Justin_


	3. Chapter 3

Oh, my love, don't be afraid. They say it's wrong, but so is smoking, and you send a pack up in smoke every day, don't you, Roxy?

You say it's wrong, but that doesn't stop you from clinging to me when he fucks you over again. Doesn't stop you from pressing against me, begging me to kiss you better, does it, Roxy?

I say it's wrong that you deny what's in your heart. And you do that every day, shying away from my hand holding in the public eye, muttering that it means nothing, don't you Roxy.

And it's wrong. So very wrong. No one should be able to do this to me.

But you do, don't you, Roxy?


	4. Chapter 4

You sit on his bed, tracing your finger over the photograph of the four of you at Hogwarts. Your fingertips brush over his handsome face, and your chest tigtens.

You will never see him smile like that again.

He will never laugh like that again.

"Sirius," you whisper into the empty air, blinking away the tears.

He wouldn't want you to cry, but you don't understand how you can do anything else.

"Please come back. Please don't be dead."

But you know that there are no ears to hear your desperate plea. Even if there were, it would do no good. Wish and pray as you might, there is still no bringing him back to life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note: Voldemort wins!AU**

Seamus shivers beside you, pale and weak. You wish you could say something to make everything okay, but you know that those words don't exist.

You spent enough time running before that fateful battle. You know the pain of hunger, of the chill so deep that it bites into your bones. Most of all, as Ted had taught you, no amount of foolish wishing and pretty promises of what a beautiful tomorrow will follow can save you.

"I want to go back," he says. "I want to kill those bastards and go home!"

You do the only thing you can do. You hold him close, kissing his sandy hair and trying not to think of how miserable you are out here, even with him.

Seamus presses into your touch. God, you can feel his bones trying to break through his skin. He is cold, too cold.

Deathly cold, but you try not to think about that. Because if Seamus dies, you will be alone, and you're not sure that you can handle this dark new world without your lover by your side.

"I'm scared," he admits, and you don't know how to react because Seamus has always been so fearless, so Irish with his fiery nature and inability to back down.

False promises cling to your tongue, demanding to be spoken. _It will be okay. We'll make it out of this alive. Soon, we'll have a warm bed and a good meal, and maybe we'll even have enough energy for a nice shag before breakfast._

But you can't tell him this. Lying to him might be merciful, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

"I'm scared, too," you admit.

But you don't say that you're only scared for him, that it frightens you that you can count his ribs, that you're afraid he might not wake up if he goes to sleep. You no longer care what happens to you. Maybe you're fading, but Seamus, your sweet Seamus, is fading faster.

"I love you, Shay," you murmur, trying not to cry because you want to be strong for him.

He pulls back, a ghost of his old smile tugging at his lips. "I love you, too, Dean. Just wait. We'll be okay. I bet you anything we'll have a warm bed before the week is out."

You smile like you believe him, but you don't tell him that you've heard that hope hundreds of times before. You are not cruel enough to shatter the only hope he has left.


	6. Chapter 6

Hannah remembers locking herself in her room for hours on end after her mother's death. She had destroyed the once tidy space, as though her anger could somehow bring her mother back.

She remembers staring out the window as Neville is now, as though she might catch a glimpse of her mother returning home with an apology on her lips, asking them to forgive her for scaring them.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Her husband shakes his head, and she isn't surprised.

"I suppose this is the part where you tell me everything is going to be okay, right?" he mutters, resting his cheek against the glass and glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Nope. Because that's the stupidest lie there is," she says flatly. "It's not going to be okay. You're going to just wake up one day and stop missing her. She's your mum."

"She didn't even know me."

"She would have been proud of you, though," she says, wrapping her arms around him and resting her chin on his shoulder. "I know she would have."

Neville almost smiles. It isn't much, but Hannah thinks that it might just be enough to let the healing begin.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n: historical!AU taking place during the witch hunts.**

"It's mostly just a scare," Hermione assures her husband, kneading the dough and watching the flames and smoke in the distance. "They have no actual evidnece that witches are here. We have no need to worry unless we draw attention to ourselves."

"So, they're burning innocent people at the stake," her husband supplies, pinching the bridge of his nose as he sits at the table. "And we**'**re supposed to just be all right with that?"

Hermione shifts uncomfortably, resting her dough-sticky hands on her apron, finally drawing her eyes away from the distant chaos. Of course she isn't all right with it. The screams as poor Astoria Malfoy as she'd been dragged out of her home for questioning still keeps Hermione awake at night. She's sick to death of the tension in the village, as though a neighbor might dance with demons at any moment.

"We could-"

"No, Ronald," she sighs. "It is too much of a risk. We could die."

"And if we just sit back, then more innocent people will die. We can stop this."

For several moments, Hermione doesn't speak. Tears slip from her eyes, and she sits at last, letting out a fresh sigh as she rests her head against the table. "I'm scared."

"Me too," Ronald admits, hands rubbing gentle circles into his wife's back.

**.**

"Are you ready?" Ronald asks, holding his wife's hand as they stand before the governor's estate.

"No," Hermione admits, fully aware of the consequences the lie she's prepared to give will hold. But she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze as he knocks.

"Yes?" Cornelius Fudge calls, the door opening just a crack.

"We have a crime to confess, m'lord," Ronald says with a humble bow.

"Not now, boy. I'm-"

"We are the witches," Hermione says before they can be cut off. "The villagers you've arrested were under our enchantment."

**.**

As they're tied in place, hand in hand, Hermione barely notices the smell of burning straw or the heat of the flames licking her legs through her skirt. She only hopes that their sacrifice will bring peace at last to those they leave behind.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you okay, Oliver?" Percy asks, his eyes soft with concern.

You grin. "Of course. There's a match today, isn't there? I'm great!"

Really, your head feels like it's about to explode. Your muscles ache, and you feel sick to your stomach. Still, you hold your head high. It's just a minor bug. You'll go to the hospital wing as soon as Gryffindor wins.

Percy settles back in his seat, but his eyes don't leave you. However much you insist that you're fine, when he won't believe you. You have no choice but to just accept his worrying. "You look pale."

"It's nothing," you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. "Fit as a fiddle, me."

"Maybe you should-"

"Perce, I feel great. I'll feel even better when we slaughter Hufflepuff today."

.

You shake your head, jaw clenching. You feel like hell, and being so far off the ground doesn't help.

But you have a match to win. Gryffindor is counting on you.

Forcing your back a little straighter, you watch, waiting.

Maybe you should have gotten a potion before heading out. Your vision begins to blur, and a Quaffle soars past you.

"Head in the game, Wood!" Charlie calls.

You open your mouth to respond, but the world suddenly spins around you. Your body grows slack, and as the darkness sets in, you're vaguely aware of a falling sensation.

.

"Did we win?" you murmur, peeking your eyes open and wincing at the sting of the light.

Percy is at your side in an instant, eyes narrowed as he sits beside you. "What were you thinking? The flu is one thing, but now three broken ribs and a fractured wrist!"

"I'm fine, Perce," you grumble, though you're really not. "You worry too much."

"And you don't worry nearly enough."

"Because you worry enough for both of us," you laugh.

He scowls, brushing his hand over your forehead. "There are more important things than Quidditch, you know."

"Like you."

His expression softens, though you can tell he's still annoyed with you. You made him worry, and it will be a while before he can forgive you for not thinking.

"Kiss me better?" you ask hopefully.

"You're contagious," he says, though he leans in and places a quick kiss to your cheek. "If I catch it, you're taking care of me."

With a chuckle, you shrug. "Deal."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: For clarity's sake, Reg's dialogue is the bits in bold, Barty's in italics.**

**.**

_Reg? What's wrong? You look like hell._

**Good to see you, too. Aren't you going to invite me in? I could use a drink.**

_You didn't answer my question._

**Is it so hard to believe that I just wanted to see you? Don't look at me like that! I just- Please, Barty.**

_You never stop by unless you want something._

**I want to see you.**

**.**

_You're leaving?_

**I have to.**

_You could stay, you know. I wouldn't mind._

**Barty...**

_You never stay. What's wrong? Scared you parents will find out you're shagging a Ministry brat?_

**Is that all it is? Just shagging?**

_You know what I mean. Stay. Please. For me._

**I love you. I hope you never forget that.**

_Why does this feel like goodbye?_

Silence.

_Reg! Come back! Stay with me, please! Reg._

Silence, and nothing more.


	10. Chapter 10

_"I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy."_

_-Sylvia Plath_

You can taste the alcohol heavy on his tongue when he crashes his lips against yours. You don't mind that he has to be drunk to love you, as long as he's in your arms.

.

"Got royally pissed last night," Piers says, and you notice that he refuses to meet your gaze as he tells your friends. "Don't remember a damn thing."

You laugh along with the others, commenting how it's no surprise. But your chest aches because you know he's lying. He remembers, but he is too ashamed to tell them, too afraid of what it might mean if they knew.

.

"God, Dudley," he groans after his fifth drink, and he slumps against you, his lips tickling your neck.

You smile and play along, letting him fall into your arms. "Few too many?"

He grins a lopsided grin before kissing your neck.

.

"She's cute, yeah?" Piers says as a girl in a too short skirt passes you by.

"Didn't really notice," you mumble, refusing to follow his gaze.

Piers doesn't seem to hear you. He's already gone, following her out with a hopeful smile, leaving you alone.

.

He kisses you fiercely, like you are all that matters. His arms wrap around you, like he's desperate to hold on to you and keep you there.

For once, you just sit there, unmoving. Your hands just rest on his hips, your heart no longer in it.

.

"Maybe I could come over tonight," he says. "I stole my dad's brandy. So, we could-"

"I'm busy tonight," you lie without looking up at him.

You don't think that you can handle the betrayal that is undoubtedly in his eyes. There will be questions there, questions that you don't know how to answer.

"Tomorrow, then?"

"My aunt is visiting. It's not a good time."

.

You miss the drunken snogs, the clumsy tangle of limbs. You miss him, and it hurts without him.

But it hurts worse with him, never being good enough to love sober.


End file.
